the D.R., would never live anywhere else.
Boston is really racist, you offer by way
of orientation.
She looks at you like you're crazy. Bos-
ton isn't racist, she says. She also scoffs at
the idea of racism in Santo Domingo.
So Dominicans love Haitians now?
That's not about race. She pro-
nounces every syllable. That's about
nationality.
Of course you end up in bed, and it
ain't bad except for the fact that she
never, never comes and she spends a lot
of time complaining about her husband.
Soon you're squiring her around the city
and beyond: to Salem on Halloween and
one weekend to the Cape. Noone ever
pulls you over or asks you for I.D. when
you're with her. Everywhere you two go
she shoots photos, but never any of you.
She writes her kids postcards while you're
in bed.
At the end of the semester, she returns
home. My home, not your home, she says
tetchily. She's always trying to prove
you're not Dominican. If I' m not Domin-
ican, then no one is, you shoot back, but
she laughs at that. Say that in Spanish,
she challenges and, of course, you can't.
Last day, you drive her to the airport and
there is no crushing "Casablancà' kiss,
just a smile and a little gay-ass hug and
her fake breasts push against you like
something irrevocable. Write, you tell
her, and she says, Por supuesto, and, of
course, neither of you does. You eventu-
ally erase her contact info from your
phone, but not the pictures you took of
her in bed while she was naked and
asleep, never those.
YEAR. 4
W: eddin g invitations from the ex-su-
cias start to arrive in the mail. You
have no idea how to explain this berserk-
erÍa. What the fuck, you say. Arlenny
turns over the cards, quotes Oates: Re-
venge is living well, without you.
That year your arms and legs begin to
give you trouble, occasionally going
numb, flickering in and out like a
brownout back on the Island. It is a
strange pins-and-needles feeling. What
the fuck is this? you wonder. I hope I'm
not dying. You're probably working out
too hard, Elvis says. But I'm not really
working out at all, you protest. Probably
just stress, the nurse at Emergency Care
E LCO.MI!.."tO"tke
v
SHAþOW
op.
DEAT H
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.
tells you. You hope so, flexing your
hands, worrying. You really do hope so.
March you fly out to the Bay to de-
liver a lecture, which does not go well; al-
most no one shows up beyond those who
were forced to by their professors. After-
ward, you head out alone to a Korean
joint and gorge on kalbi until you're ready
to burst. You drive around, just to get a
feel for the city. You have a couple of
friends in town but you don't call them,
because you know they'll only want to
talk about old times, about the ex. You
have a sucia in town, too, and in the end
you call her, but when she hears your
name she hangs up on your ass.
When you return to Boston, the law
student is waiting for you in the lobby of
your building. You're surprised and ex-
cited and a little wary. What's up?
It's like bad television. You notice that
she has lined up three suitcases in the
foyer. And, on closer inspection, that her
ridiculously Persian-looking eyes are red
from crying, her mascara freshly applied.
I'm pregnant, she says.
At first you don't register it. You joke,
And?
You asshole. She starts crying. It's prob-
ably your stupid fucking kid.
There are surprises and there are sur-
prises, and then there is this.
You don't know what to say or how to
act, so you take her upstairs. You lug up
the suitcases despite your back, despite
your foot, despite your flickering arms.
She says nothing, just hugs her pillow to
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her Howard sweater. She is a Southern
girl with supremely erect posture, and
when she sits down you feel as if she were
preparing to interview you. After serving
her tea you ask, Are you keeping it?
Of course I'm keeping it.
What about Kimathi?
She doesn't get it. Who?
Your Kenyan. You can't bring yourself
to say boyfriend.
He threw me out. He knows it's not
his. She picks at something on her
sweater. I'm going to unpack, O.K.? You
nod and watch her. She is an exception-
ally beautiful girl. You think of that old
saying Show me a beautiful girl and I'll
show you someone who is tired offucking her.
You doubt you would ever have tired of
her, though.
But it could be his, right?
It's yours, O.K.? she cries. I know you
don't want it to be yours, but it's yours.
You are surprised at how hollowed out
you feel. You don't know if you should
show enthusiasm or support. You run
your hand over the thinning stubble on
your head.
I need to stay here, she tells you later,
after the two of you fumble through an
awkward fuck. I have nowhere to go. I
can't go back to my family.
When you tell Elvis the whole story
you expect him to flip out, to order you to
kick her out. You fear his reaction, be-
cause you know that you don't have the
heart to kick her out.
But Elvis doesn't flip. He slaps you
THE NEW YORKER, JULY 23, 2012 65